


Fate Is No Punishment

by RedNightingale



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Curse Breaking, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Reaper - Freeform, Reconciliation, Witch Curses, Witcher!Gabriel, witcher!jack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedNightingale/pseuds/RedNightingale
Summary: Jack had, in fact, been chasing the rumors of a creature that haunted these lands, but all accounts seemed to place it closer to the mountains, down West. He, coming from the East, had expected to find the beast much further along his way, with this town being little more than a rest for the night. Yet, the creature and him had bumped into each other. By coincidence, or by design.He seemed to consider the offer for a moment, not letting his expressions betray that he had been sold on staying the moment he heard the creature was there.  “I will stay tonight, and talk with the alderman tomorrow. After that, I promise nothing.”
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 12
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**-I-**

"Witcher."

It's not a statement. Not a question, either. Not a warning, not a threat, not a greeting. Jack had been one for long enough to recognize all the inflections that single word can have. This time, it was a request.

He turned around.

He recognized the innkeeper. The one who had denied him a room earlier, forcing him to sleep in his tent instead of in a warm bed for a change. No hard feelings —or, at least, none harder towards him than what he has towards humankind, in general. It hadn’t been the first time, nor would it be the last, that his presence was not welcome in the towns he’d visited. He’d been kicked out with stones, denied entry at the gates, chased by the guards —enough that one innkeeper stating he was unwelcome would not have made him bat an eyelash. His establishment, however, had turned out to be rather lackluster and very much deserving of its ill repute, which made the stranger’s denial all the more scathing. The few coins he charged for a night probably meant for him more than they meant for Jack —and work had been quite scarce, lately, and hunger was already showing its sharp fangs— so it spoke volumes about the man, and none were kind. He crossed his arms, expectant, his eyes adjusting into the vertical slits that allow him to see away from the campfire and into where he’s standing in the dark.

There was none of the self-righteousness he'd shown while kicking him out, however. In the dawn, with the chilly wind rasping an eerie melody out of the trees and with Jack's small campfire as the only flame to fight against the never-ending void, faced against his icy blue eyes, his bravado had seemed to escape him. In the dim light, he did not seem able to meet Jack's gaze, stealing nervous glances to his own feet, to the glistening medallion on the witcher's chest, to the sword strapped against his back, to his eyes again, then back to the feet. The flickering fire made shadows dance across his features, increasing the more he fidgets when silence stretched.

It was easy to see him for what he is, then —another man, afraid of the monsters he cannot see, who lashes out at the ones he thinks he has power over. Nothing more than a cornered rat, biting the hand when it thinks it's about to meet its end.

There are monsters, and there's coin. Sometimes in the same hands.

"The town needs your help.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “It did not seem like I was a welcome guest.”

The man averted his gaze again. “The beast came for me family last night.” That would explain the change in demeanor, at least. Jack hummed, but did not cut him short, for it had piqued his interest . “I can offer a room for you to stay, and alderman is said to be offering a reward.”

The witcher tried not to let his facial expression betray his interest, finding it best to conceal his cards for the time being, but his eyes widened all the same. Jack had, in fact, been chasing the rumors of a creature that haunted these lands, but all accounts seemed to place it closer to the mountains, down West. He, coming from the East, had expected to find the beast much further along his way, with this town being little more than a rest for the night. Yet, the creature and him had bumped into each other. By coincidence, or by design.

It must’ve been moving, fast enough that it outran the word-of-mouth. And that was not an easy feat.

“Are they the only victims?” he asked.

“No, sir.” The innkeeper scratched his head. “Guards told me —they did not mean to, but words always come out when ale spills— that they’d found the local banker dead in his bed, throat slit end to end. We all thought it’d be some kind of retribution, for he wasn’t the best liked in town.” Jack grunted. It _did_ seem like a personal murder. Too clean of a cut. “Then, the beast came for the rest. Good folk, sir Witcher. Decent fellows. The shoemaker, the night ‘fore yesterday, and my very own brother, just tonight. The bells rang at midnight, did you not hear?” The witcher shook his head. “So the alderman has looked twice at the banker, and then he’s seen the signs.”

“What signs?”

“He had claw marks all around, sir. Looked mauled by a bear, so they say.”

That matched the description of the creature he’d been chasing. The slit throat was a new detail, though, one that he hadn’t heard in the other accounts. Perhaps it had been a retribution, after all, and the murderer added the claws to disguise it as another of the beast’s victims. Yet, it had been the first. How were they to know the monster would come to this place?

Why would the creature travel, in any case?

The towns it had attacked were pretty populated, for a rural region —it would’ve had no shortage of victims there. And creatures like that were usually territorial. The tales of the traveling monster had piqued his interest enough to ditch easier jobs and risk a trek to these lands. Hearing about its ability to outrun him intrigued all the more.

“I had been meaning to leave town at dawn,” he answered. It was the truth: he had meant to visit Spaden, the last town known to have been attacked, before the new information put a change to his plans. “The alderman’s bounty on the creature is yet to be seen. Without it, nothing ties me to this place.”

“You can have one of my rooms for free,” the innkeeper sputtered, reaching for his forearm but catching himself midway through the motion. “Free of charge,” he emphasized. “Stay.” Jack was not a gambling man, but he’d bet all the money to his name that the innkeeper, his wife, and their children lived in the very same inn, not far from the room he is being offered. The attack must have been brutal, to have swayed the stranger’s opinions in such a radical way.

He seemed to consider it for a moment, not letting his expressions betray that he had been sold on staying the moment he heard the creature was there. “I will stay tonight, and talk with the alderman tomorrow. After that, I promise nothing.”

“Thank you.”

He took his horse by the saddles. “Lead the way, then.”

* * *

The alderman turned out to be a sensible man, which pleased Jack greatly.

“Witcher,” he greets, “come, come. Sit. Be my guest.”

The tavern was full, yet the table the alderman had chosen for them sat on a corner, half-hidden by the shadows the windows cast and away from the door. Somewhere in the establishment, a bard was singing some —quite lascivious— ballad about a princess and a werewolf. The roars of laughter concealed them well, far enough from the crowd that the sounds of conversations and beer did not disturb their talking, but close enough that the background noise would cover their own words from spying ears. The folk paid them no mind, and Jack sat in front of the alderman with barely a glance spared his way.

He was immediately offered a demijohn by the man, which he accepted gladly. “I am Sullen, alderman of Bleivik. What is your name, witcher? I find these affairs better if done more personally.”

The man looked, for all Jack searched for a better term, like a rat. He did not mean to think badly of the alderman, for it had done him no harm, but there was something in his too-long front teeth, a certain quality to his round, chubby face, a certain shine in his eyes, that reminded the witcher very powerfully of a rodent. He met his gaze as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the tavern.

“John,” he answers. A moment passes, and since the alderman hasn’t answered yet, he adds: “John of Morris.” The name rolled uneasily in his tongue, despite it being very much his own. He grimaced. He had been too accustomed to being called something else, a long time ago. Too much time had passed, since, yet he still could not quite shake the discomfort of being called anything else. The scent of cinnamon and mint clouded his senses, before he could chase the memories away.

“I see, John.” The man shook his hand with a firm grip. “You’re aware the town has been dealing with some monster.”

Jack nodded, taking a swig of the drink. “The innkeeper also mentioned a reward,” he mentioned casually.

The alderman chuckled, finishing his food and motioning for the owner to bring another plate. “Yes, there will be. But perhaps not as high as you’d expect. Do you wish to eat, John of Morris? Be my guest.” He was not particularly hungry, although the smell of food really was enticing. He nodded. Sullen continued. “You see, this monster _is_ a problem. To me, at least. A problem I would very much gladly be willing to pay someone to solve. And I’m sure such is the case for the governors of the other cities you’ve crossed —yes, I heard the rumors too. But as soon as the creature’s paws cross one too many towns, it begins to escape our hands.”

The waitress —a petite brunette, probably the owner’s daughter judging by their uncanny resemblance— brought Jack a plate of beef, which he politely set aside until Sullen began to eat too.

“It’s Prince Eivann’s affair, then,” he concluded. The man nodded.

Jack clenched his jaw. He would willingly enter —while sober— a very limited number of courts, and Prince Eivann’s was surely not on that short list. He’d been once, back when his grandfather had been the ruler, and the experience had been none too pleasant. It was said Eivann’s discontent for witchers and magic far outweighed that of his ancestors. Jack was not very eager to find out by his own account.

“But Prince Eivann may not be so willing to shell out money for the creature to become someone else’s problem. He is a firm believer of taking matters into his own hands.” Sullen spared a glance to their surroundings, checking the patrons were still busy with the music and food to pay them any notice. “He would much rather send his army here and let them deal with it,” the alderman finished.

“You mean, he would prefer to use these attacks as an excuse to move troops to the border with Helenia, a territory he’s been after since their King died.” The alderman said nothing, but did not deny it. “A horrendously bad move, if you ask me,” Jack continued, “since moving the troops here would leave the North unguarded. And that is a perilous affair, for someone else might try to get their hands on his kingdom while he’s getting his own on Helenia’s pie.”

The alderman nodded, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. Jack saw a certain kind of wisdom in his brown eyes, a cunning he did not expect to see in the governor of such a small town —but one which was welcome, nonetheless, as long as it did not turn against him. “You’re quite a perceptive fellow, John of Morris.” Jack met his gaze, smirking, before the man continued. “I’ll say nothing bad about His Royal Highness, of course, but there are a lot of talents I may praise before I get to his strategic mind. You can see why letting this problem get too out of hand may be rather troublesome, especially for us folk in the border. And why I, as an alderman of a small town, might not gather as much coin as the Crown might’ve had.”

“Politics are of little interest to me,” Jack answered, anticipating him. “So I would not be swayed to agree to an ill-paying job just to save a Prince a few indignities and a poorly-planned campaign.”

“Not that I’d expect that, sir Witcher,” he conceded. “But our sorcerer has been looking into what the creature has left, and says the wounds look magical in origin, despite them looking —to my untrained eyes, at least— very much like an animal’s.” Jack furrowed his brow. That information took him aback, since he’d very much expected the monster to be just another wild creature. “He claims not to have seen anything of the sort before. Perhaps the, err, professional curiosity will make up for what the town’s arcs lack.”

Jack hummed, considering. “Does the sorcerer still keep his findings?” he asked.

Sullen nodded. “As far as I’m aware, yes.”

“I’d like to visit him, if that’s possible.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind comments! I'm a happy, encouraged writer. I hope you like this chapter too, because I was so inspired to write it I wrote 2.5k in one sitting, which is huge for me. I'm having a lot of fun!

-II-

Sorcerers’ houses usually stuck out like a sore thumb. All of them, unfalteringly, grew too accustomed to the luxuries and extravagances of the courts they served —so much so that, even after they retired to little towns and cities to sell potions and elixirs, they still maintained remnants of the squandering they had been surrounded with. Their residences, huge buildings of white stone amid the merchants and traders’ wooden ones, rivalled the castles and palaces of the local nobility, sometimes outshining them with no small amount of condescendence. After all, they had been trained to be the Kings’ and Queens’ advisors, and —though thinly-veiled, for they still knew their precarious place in the ladder— would not let minor nobility forget it.

It struck Jack as odd, therefore, that the residence the alderman had pointed looked exactly like the rest. Same architecture, same wood, exactly identical —no less, but certainly no more— than the wool merchant’s on his right. He had never known one of their kind to settle for that basic a residence —and on such a small town, too. Dealing with sorcerers was not something he looked forward too, and this unexpected development left him wary as to where he was standing.

He knocked twice, still unsure that he’d been given the right directions. The door opened with a gush of wind, with no one on the other side, and his medallion vibrated soothingly. His nerves steadied somewhat. He cleared his throat to make his presence known.

“Come in, come in,” a voice said, deep inside the house. “I was warned you’d pay me a visit, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.”

Jack shrugged, not entirely certain whether the sorcerer was watching. “I’m not one for lazing around.”

“A true professional, then.”

He followed the sound of the voice, his pupils adjusting to the dim light. He found his way to the sorcerer’s office; where a tall, dark man was expecting him.

The witcher smiled to himself. This, at least, was comfortingly familiar: the walls were covered with shelves containing jars and flasks of a myriad of sizes, neatly labeled —albeit on a code Jack was not able to decipher— and filled with liquids and finely-ground solids; books and manuals piled on corners when the shelve space was found too scarce, and a luxurious desk made of oak laid in the middle, with papers and documents spread all throughout. All the exterior was lacking, the house made up with a crowded interior —all its secrets being well worth their price in gold, Jack noted.

“Greetings, Sorcerer,” he said.

The man chuckled. Jack got the feeling, however, that the humor was not directed towards him. “Is that what the folk around here told you to call me? So be it, I guess. By any means, you can call me Baptiste.” He smiled pleasantly at him, lifting his hand for a handshake. The robes he was wearing —made of what looked like soft silk— made a pleasant ruffling sound, and the onyx in his chest glistened against the light when he moved.

“Very well, Baptiste,” he conceded, crossing the threshold of the door. His medallion was vibrating more insistently now, a feeling he tried to tune out. He accepted the handshake. Baptiste’s grip was soft, yet firm. “May I ask why Sorcerer may not be a befitting title?”

“You may,” Baptiste answered, then paused. “I was certainly raised and trained as one, if that is what concerns you. I will have no problem aiding you, if magic is what you need in your endeavor. However…” he caressed the cover of one of the books in the desk, “the Council and I have had our hang-ups, in the past, and I'm afraid the course of time has drifted us too far apart. I find myself more inclined to druidic teachings, these days. I'm sure you have heard of them." Baptiste met the witcher's gaze, then. Politely, but with defiance hidden underneath. As if daring Jack to debate him.

That was not a good sign. For Jack had, in fact, heard of them. Particularly of their concept of equilibrium, as it so much interfered with his line of work. He clenched his jaw, prepared for the blow. "You won't help me, then."

Baptiste looked genuinely surprised, his eyebrows shooting up. "I did not say that."

He was young, Jack decided. He certainly looked young —all sorcerers did, after all, what with their trial allowing them to choose their appearance— but Jack had met enough of them to brush past the carefully-chosen appearance and look where it was most telling. Their eyes betrayed what their body had been remodeled to get rid of, and Baptiste's —defiant, arrogant, sure in their idealism— were those of a man who had seen the worst of what the world had to offer, but yet though he could counter it with his force of will alone.

Entirely too young, he decided. Like Gabriel's back when they first met, his traitorous mind supplied, and the thought pierced his heart like a shard of ice.

"Why tell me about the druids, then?" he grit out, if only to chase the phantoms away.

The druid's mouth stretched in a small smile. "You had asked, after all." Improbable as it was, Jack could not shake the feeling that the man could sense his internal turmoil. “Is something the matter, Witcher? You look shaken.”

He probably did. “Old memories, is all.”

Fortunately, although Baptiste had identified the feeling, he misunderstood the source. “I see. Druids and witchers rarely make a happy couple, I’ll give you that. But still, dear witcher, I never said I would not help you. I agree with the concept of equilibrium, if that is what you were scared of: the so-called monsters have as much of a right to this land than we do, as it is every bit as theirs as it is ours. Yet I feel druidic teachings are lacking in a vital part. If a manticore has a tail to defend itself and to attack those who threaten its survival, and a griffin has claws for that exact same purpose, would it not make sense for Man to develop weapons faster than it could thicken his skin?”

“And what greater weapon is there than a witcher, right?” Jack asked.

Baptiste averted his gaze. “Ah. I’m sorry if I opened old wounds, so to speak. I bear no ill-intent towards you: I meant to say that, after all, much as it pains me to see the slaughter of living creatures for fun or greed, witchers are born out of a need for survival. I understand, if not condone, the job you undertake. I, too, am a product of my own upbringing.”

“Yet you did not follow the path chosen for you. I cannot help but feel you would look down condescendingly on those who did.”

The man laughed, but there was little humor behind his chuckle. “My metamorphosis was merely a philosophical change of heart, witcher. I understand that for others it may be—,” his eyes shot up, to Jack’s white hair, and then back at his unnaturally bright blue eyes, “—less easily reversible.”

Jack crossed his arms, growing tired of the conversation. He felt exposed, in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. Contempt, he was accustomed to. Outright hatred, too. Pity was not something he could easily bear and this —understanding, condescendence, whatever it was— did not bode well. Time was running short, in any case: he had no time to discuss the ethics of mutations and the ecological niche of witchers with a sorcerer-druid bored of making the umpteenth invigorant potion for a rich merchant whose lovers found him somewhat lacking.

Baptiste noticed his change in demeanor and cleared his throat. “But I digress. You came here for the victims, in the end.”

“That, I did.”

“Well. I can explain my findings, but I think it would be best if you followed me to the basement and saw for yourself.” He started walking, then, and Jack followed. The previous conversation had unnerved him, and as he followed the man through his house, he made sure to check the directions they took and the fastest route out from each of the rooms.

The basement, lit with candlelight, hid the corpses of two men preserved in salt. “Forgive the smell, dear witcher.” It did smell foolish, despite the lack of decomposition the corpses showed. Death was a stink hard to get rid of—Jack knew that well. “I found a spell might alter the traces of Old Magic, so I did not dare to. Just in case someone else wanted to take a look.”

Jack hummed in agreement.

He walked closer to the coffins the men were laid in. The oldest of them had a clean cut in his throat, right through the yugular. As he had suspected, it was too clean to be that of an animal’s. He had been mauled, too, but perhaps artificially so, if his trained eye was to be believed —he had seen too many men fallen prey to monsters to be able to tell. Then there was also the fact that the bodies seemed to be intact, apart from the dismemberment —weird, considering eating should have been the point of killing them in the first place.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Baptiste said, behind him. Jack wasn’t startled —he had heard the soft footsteps, after all— but it surprised him to find that the man had been so close. “And no, no organs are missing. Except for the blood, that is: it seems to have been drained of them.” That explained the ashen quality of their skin, at least. He took note of it, running it through the mental list of creatures that fed through blood, and blood alone. It wasn’t long, and none were a prospect Jack was happy to face.

He approached the other body. This one, younger but perhaps not by much, somewhat resembled the innkeeper. His brother, Jack reasoned. He had his shirt torn open, and lacked pants, which made the claw marks all the more striking.

“He was found in that state,” Baptiste anticipated his unvoiced question. “I’m inclined to believe he was in the middle of some, err… endeavors, when the creature found him.”

“No other victims found?”

“None, witcher.”

Jack took one last look at him. The picture was grotesque: his jaw had been tore away from his cranium and his sternum was cracked open like a shell. He stared, unblinkingly, committing the image to memory. It seemed familiar —for a reason he could not recall, as he couldn’t put a name to the creature as much as his mind ran through the list.

“You said you felt Old Magic in them,” he said, finally turning around.

“I did. I’m afraid I can’t show you proof of it, as you —for lack of a better phrase— simply do not have the ability to perceive it. Or,” he looked at the medallion in Jack’s chest, “at least lack the finesse to discern between the different kinds.”

“So tell me what you perceive,” he said, turning around.

Baptiste looked at him in the eye. There was none of the defiance he’d seen before: his brown gaze was steady and serious. “Magic touched them, that much is clear. I do not believe the fate that befell them was a spell, or that the creature has control over Chaos and Magic, but Magic certainly aided it in its endeavor. And it’s the Old Magic, witcher. I won’t bore you with the details —as, though much as my contempt for the Chapter is unsubtle, loyalty to my mentors forbids me from speaking about most of them— but there’s magic that we are taught and magic that is explicitly forbidden. And with reason, might I add. This,” he motioned to the coffins, “falls under the second category. I’m afraid I won’t be of much help in that regard —it is not my forte, as you can expect.”

“Yet you say you think the creature does not have control over magic.”

The man nodded. “I will be frank: if anyone had access to that powerful a magic, I sincerely doubt they’d dirty their hands with this amount of gore.”

“I see.” Baptiste opened his mouth, as to say something, but then closed it again. Jack, to whom the gesture didn’t go unnoticed, arched an eyebrow. “You can voice your concerns, druid.”

The man blushed, and offered a sheepish smile. “I don’t mean to intrude —I know your knowledge of monsters far surpasses mine— but I noticed something else. You may know already, most definitely do, but since whether its material place is the blood or not is still a matter of debate I thought I’d—”

Jack grew impatient. “Spit it out.”

“They lack a soul, Witcher.”

Jack immediately regretted having cut Baptiste’s rambling short. For it could have stalled for some blessed seconds more the moment everything fell into place. What he would not give to live back in the time where it didn’t make sense, where truth didn’t fall down his spine in a cold sweat.

When he could still believe he did not know what —or who— was behind it.

He blanched. The druid, having immediately noticed, stared at him in interest. “Ring a bell?”

“That, it does,” he answered. _For lack of a better way to phrase it._

“Is it such a horrible creature, that it makes a Witcher shake?” Jack tried to pierce a hole through the man’s skull by the force of his stare alone. “I did not mean to demean you, Witcher.” It didn’t look like it, for he had blanched too. “I merely wondered for our safety. I am far from defenseless, yet I wouldn’t want to encounter what makes a Witcher scared.”

“It is not,” Jack assured him. “And besides, if my thoughts are correct my code forbids me from killing it,” _for he is a sentient creature, and a man at that,_ “but rest assured that my reaction is not out of fear but— Old memories. It is all.”

Baptiste nodded, yet his eyes betrayed that he did not believe it completely. “There is no shame in rejecting a job, witcher. Do not take it as an affront: another witcher was here, too, and he turned the job down.”

That piqued Jack’s interest. He turned his eyes back on him, perhaps a little too quickly: the druid looked startled. “Was another witcher here?” _He would not be that stupid. Unless it was part of the plan, of course._

“Not here. He never visited me, or the victims for that matter. The alderman found him in The Carrion Crow, the tavern down north, and asked for his aid. Upon learning of the fate that had befallen them, he turned the job down.”

“Is he still in town?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Jack seemed to consider it for a second —when, in fact, he was taking that time to steady his nerves so his body would not betray how deeply this had shaken him. “Thank you for your time,” he said, at last.

_Shit. Of all the monsters, in all the towns, in all regions of all kingdoms._

_Fuck._

_***_

Jack was old enough to stop bothering to lie to himself. He was scared. Baptiste had been right: there were monsters able to paralyze a witcher in fear.

Especially those that were of his own making.

He had passed by The Carrion Crow, on his way back from the visit. He had been relieved, more than disappointed, to not have found Gabriel there. He had ordered beer, lurked on the corner for a while, and left. The price had been hilariously expensive for that jar of glorified pisswater, and fuck if that didn’t suit Gabriel —always one to splurge, acting like the coins on his purse had come from birthright and not from his own sweat and blood, which had driven practical-and-frugal Jack up the wall when they had traveled together. He could go bankrupt over his own big ego for all he cared, Jack thought to ease the pain of having to give the innkeeper that much copper over his pint.

The trip had not been, however, entirely fruitless: as he was paying for his drink, the owner had gritted out a snide remark he probably had not meant for Jack to hear —something about mutants sprouting out like mold on bread— which confirmed the druid’s information that Gabriel had been there, if only in passing. He’d saved that information to mull over as he made his way back to his room, chilly wind blowing against his face.

Yet he could still be very much gone, as almost two days had passed since the last attack. Jack would, if he were him. But he wasn’t, never was, and anticipating the man’s moves was a spectacular failure even when they were- when they were close. Gabriel had always had a mind for strategy sharp as his sword —perhaps sharper still— and did enjoy scheming, something that had always enraptured Jack. A waste of potential, given that his job was to hunt and kill insentient monsters whose brain barely allowed them to switch between ‘fight’ and ‘flight’: he was made to command, either armies out in the open or kings behind the shadows. He would’ve made a hell of a sorcerer, Jack used to think as he watched those sharp eyes move minutely as the gears in his head ground. It was a shame that he hadn’t shown potential for magic —in fact, he was notoriously bad at some Signs— for the Council would have found themselves a big asset.

He’d told him as much, more than once. The first time, Gabriel had laughed —the curvature of his lips stretching over old scars— and said that a life in court would have been too boring to bear for him, that there was nothing that could compare to a sword in his hand and Jack by his side. It had been sufficient answer. Yet Jack had told him again, in separate occasions, just because he liked to hear it, and the way Gabriel kissed him after.

He drowned those old memories in a bottle of cheap vodka in the privacy of his own room. The drink had certainly lost its edge, either because this bottle had been more watered down than the rest or because the alcohol in it was making him too drunk to care about the burn down his throat. In any case, it was making him remember —and not forget—, so he settled the now empty bottle by the foot of the palliasse and laid on it.

Before he got too sober to regret it, he wished Gabriel had been at the inn.

“Hello, Jackie,” the black figure by the window said, sometime later, when it saw Jack hadn’t reacted. Perhaps it thought itself really sneaky, it thought it had surprised him.

In fact, Jack had seen the figure against the window frame a while ago, but thought it would perhaps get bored and leave on its own. “Fuck off,” he said.

Gabriel seemed to be taken aback by the command. He didn’t brush off Jack’s insults and come closer, as he usually did whenever he haunted his dreams —which was, unfortunately, too often for Jack’s sanity. Instead, he tensed, and stood in silence for some seconds more. Jack could see nothing of the face, for it was hidden behind the shadows the hood casted, but he almost seemed… considering. “If that’s what you want,” he finally said, and took one step towards the open window from which he’d climbed in.

That wasn’t how these things went, Jack’s brain thought through the thick haze of alcohol and sleep. He wasn’t supposed to actually go, just— just understand although Jack had said it, he didn’t really want him too. “Stay.” That seemed to please him. Gabriel finally walked closer, footsteps soft against the creaking wood while he lowered the hood of his cloak to let his face be in full view. “You look like an old hag.”

He didn’t. Gabriel was still as strikingly handsome as the last time he’d seen him: the same vibrant, smoldering hazel eyes; the same powerful jaw marred by scars, the same thick neck with an open collar that so invitingly showed that silver of skin, the same powerful thighs barely concealed beneath the high-waist pants that still starred in Jack’s fantasies and unfalteringly managed to send him into a quick, shameful end whenever his libido outweighed his dignity and he took himself in hand. It was no wonder that a couple of years hadn’t marred him too badly to be unrecognizable, for witchers’ natural lifespan was long and age manifested in minute details. And most of all, because this Gabriel was nothing more than a figment of his own imagination.

“You don’t look too good yourself, darling.” Gabriel crouched to be eye-level with the palliasse and carefully brushed the wayward strands of hair out of Jack’s face. The gesture was so soft, and so tender, that it sent a shiver down Jack’s spine. “These scars are new.”

“They are,” Jack agreed. He knew Gabriel was waiting for a follow-up explanation, yet he gave none. He could tell the exact moment Gabriel knew it wasn’t coming: his eyes darted away, clouded with an undecipherable emotion. Jack felt a surge of twisted pride.

“You still fight like I’m watching your back.”

A shard of ice, pierced between his ribs. “None of your business.”

“I guess it isn’t, anymore.”

Silence fell. Gabriel said nothing more, but didn’t move away. His right hand was still cupping Jack’s cheek. The skin burned in the points of contact, like warmed next to a fireplace after a whole day in the snow. He loathed himself for leaning into the touch. “Did you come here to mock me?” he asked.

“No.” And he said no more.

Petty bastard.

“Sleep with me,” he asked.

Gabriel rose his eyebrows, chuckling slightly. “Damn, still as forward as I remembered.”

That rubbed him the wrong way. He didn’t know if it was because he thought Jack had been propositioning him —for the fact that Jack _had_ thought about it— or simply for _remembering_ , as if he had the right to recall, too, the memories Jack so much cherished.

He pushed the man’s shoulder with the palm of his hand to throw him off-balance. Gabriel didn’t budge. “I really meant sleep, not fuck. It’s cold, and if you’re still going to be a cagey son of a bitch, you could at least make yourself useful.”

He rose up, at that, leaving Jack’s head to walk the edge of the palliasse and stand by his feet, staring at the open window again. It hurt —even in his dreams, he could not get him back. Gabriel leaving hurt back then, hurt now, and would always hurt still.

Then he felt him tug at his boots. “Fuck you, I really meant it when I said no sex.”

“Asshole. You fell asleep with your clothes on.” He tugged one boot free, left it on the side of the bed, and began to take off the other. Jack helped, wiggling his foot to ease it coming out. “I’d take away the sword on your back, too, if I didn’t know you’d try to impale me with it as soon as I touched it.”

Jack simply answered, “I’ll take mine off when you take yours.”

Gabriel’s twin sword, strapped in an X on his back, vanished in a cloud of black smoke. Jack’s eyes widened, more at the show of trust than at the cheap party trick, which he had already seen too many times already. “I won’t get up uncomfortable and sore just because my bed partner doesn’t trust me.” He took off his own boots and trousers. Jack tried not to gawk too much at his naked legs, the wild expanse of delicious skin his mouth was itching to map. Some scars, he recognized —the ones Gabriel had earned for protecting him, and the ones by Jack’s own hand would forever be burnt into his memory— but some were new. One was especially ugly, a scorching mark by his left thigh that must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch. He realized he’d been staring for too long, because Gabriel got huffy. “Take your own damn pants yourself. I am not your maid.”

Jack did. It felt alien, and entirely too intimate, to undress in front of him again. There had been a time where Gabriel knew Jack’s body better than his own, and though not much had changed in him since, it felt entirely different. He tried to feign indifference, then realized he didn’t even care what Gabriel thought of him: he wasn’t real, in the first place.

Gabriel put out the candle and laid next to him: the palliasse dipped with the added weight, pushing Jack closer to the other body. He allowed the gravitational pull, inching closer still, encouraged by the excuse and boldened by the darkness.

The man’s body was warm, and smelled of cinnamon and mint, stronger than Jack remembered. He loathed Gabriel for it —it had taken years for the memory to be fuzzy and dulled enough that even in the worst days he remembered his scent very faintly, and now he would have to forget it all over again.

His heart ached: he could still feel the tendrils of Gabriel’s hold on his heart, just as he could feel his own’s on Gabriel’s if he focused. Weak, but alive: pulsating slightly, he could tug at the strings if he wanted. He didn’t dare —Gabriel would notice, and much as he knew this Gabriel wouldn’t feel it, perhaps the real one would, somewhere far away. The fact that the connection was still there somehow hurt more than if it had been severed off completely.

Fate had a sick sense of humor.

“Don’t snore,” Gabriel warned.

“Don’t hog the blankets,” Jack retorted.

He laid against him; eyes wide open against the ceiling. He heard the sheets rustling, and felt a warm hand hug his waist as Gabriel settled more comfortably against his back. His warm breath tickled the little hairs on his neck, and Jack felt each exhale like a livewire. He relaxed into the touch, basking in the sensations and milking them for all they were worth. Gabriel’s breath eventually evened out —the sharp staccato of air against his skin eventually turned into soft waves of a rising and receding tide.

“I really loved you, then,” Gabriel confessed, when Jack thought he’d already fallen asleep.

“I love you, still.”

Gabriel didn’t answer. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. The lack of an answer was a relief: he didn’t know which answer would’ve hurt less. He fell into an easy sleep, devoid of any other dreams. He woke up in the middle of the night, still half-drunk, to relieve himself. He was alone, but too sleepy to process it.

Then he woke up, completely this time, and when he rolled around to get up the scent of cinnamon and mint was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also [on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/ReddNightingale)

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, so, Jack's name actually *has* a reason to be the way it is, which will come up eventually. Do not worry, I'm JRR Tolkien-ing all up in this binch. I love worldbuilding. 
> 
> Please tell me what you think!


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